


I love you. Neurons, heartstrings and all.

by AltheaB (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AltheaB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The not-so-whirlwind romance of a high-functioning sociopath and his equally mad doctor...</p><p>Quote:<br/>"Oblivious John, ordinary, normal, regular John, but not boring, never dull. John, in his black leather jacket and worn brown trousers, short and strong like an anchor, his hair with shades ranging from cornstalk-yellow-002429 to mahogany-grain-093411."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Triple murder, Faraday hotel on the corner of 4 th street. – SH_

_On my way._

The response takes three point six seconds. Cab, then, probably on his way home from the clinic. Phone in hand, meaning boredom’s set in already, happens around the four-and-a-half-minute mark. Ten minute journey in this traffic – puts him about halfway along Havisham road. Presuming he jumps out at once, walking fast just shy of jogging, highly likely, no exciting cases in the clinic recently and he’d prefer to walk the short distance than stay in the cab, can intercept him at Forsythe Avenue in six point three minutes.

Sherlock is already walking in the right direction.

Murder, bloody, three victims, that’s all he knows so far. Delicious, delicious… Lestrade will keep the scene fresh, ready to be dissected and read and _understood_ – oh to see that puny criminal mind laid bare, revealing all its desires and motivations in the spread of blood _just so_ … four days without anything more interesting than that moronic divorce-turned-kidnapping case that would have been interesting if the motivation hadn’t been so unendurably _dull_ , ‘if I kidnap her she’ll love me again’, lack of logic so painfully unbearable, he’d thrown Mrs. Hudson’s offensive flower vase at Lestrade’s head… the fool had got his hopes up walking into Baker street so excitedly but the stupid kidnapping note had taken all of five seconds to crack, dull dull dull dull _dull_! It was John who’d cleaned up the glass in the end, when Lestrade had sworn at him and stormed away and Mrs. Hudson was done screeching… John, who’d said “throwing things, Sherlock, bit not good” in that mild way of his and he’d felt chastised enough to stop himself from walking all over the glass shards to examine the relation between the position of sharp debris on the floor and the resulting scarring to be expected in human skin, because he knew that would upset John.

John, who hasn’t seen him yet, walking fast just shy of a jog as Sherlock knew he would be, and for one blessed moment his thoughts stop whirring and he ignores the woman in the camel-hair coat and caramel colored boots – cat, children, dresses better than she can afford but not to be vain, just to get a little respect out of her co-workers at the nursing home who are too ready to judge her second failed marriage and single motherhood, recently had the flu – well alright, he notices them anyway, but the details aren’t bombarding him as they usually do, his thoughts are focused on the beacon that is John.

Oblivious John, ordinary, normal, regular John, but not _boring,_ never _dull_. John, in his black leather jacket and worn brown trousers, short and strong like an anchor, his hair with shades ranging from cornstalk-yellow-002429 to mahogany-grain-093411. Calm, stable, strong, and most of all _John doesn’t hate his mind._ From that first “amazing”, as he’d ripped open John’s army history with his scathing deductions… not anger, defensiveness, fear, disgust, all the repulsion people felt when he opened his mouth, mixed in with a healthy dose of awe because he is brilliant, after all, brilliant but not likable, and of course he doesn’t need to be liked, but John likes him anyway, and he likes that, doesn’t he?

Oh yes.

So he walks forward and John looks up and smiles with his whole face the way he does, laugh lines appearing around his eyes, forehead crinkling, chin lifting as his whole body angles towards Sherlock like he’s being pulled in. “I’d ask how you knew I’d be here, but I’ve seen that map of yours in action enough times”, and even though he doesn’t say it Sherlock hears the “amazing” he’s been waiting for and it’s thrilling.

________________________________

Jesus, today was boring, John thinks. Just a few cases of the good old common cold, and that batty old woman with the hair-fall she insisted was because her daughter-in-law had poisoned her shampoo. Trivial blather. Oh, he doesn’t miss the days in the army, not one whit, but after years of treating mortal injuries, hair-fall is just a tad too much for him to reasonably stomach. He wants excitement, adventure, just without the constant, burning despair of war. If it weren’t for Sherlock, he’d probably be out of his mind.

He falls tiredly into a cab, pressing his face against the cool glass of the window and closing his eyes, consciously relaxing every muscle from his neck down to his ankles. But even exhaustion isn’t enough to overcome the sheer tedium that’s seeped into his skull from the day at the clinic, and three minutes later, his feet are tapping restlessly.

He wonders what Sherlock is doing. God, what he wouldn’t do to go haring off on a chase with that madman right about now.

A minute later, he takes out his phone, scrolling halfheartedly through his old texts.

Thirty seconds later, he gets the message.

As usual, it’s not a question. Murder, location. No “do you want to come?” or even just a “be there”. But of course he’ll come, and he knows that Sherlock knows it. The bastard is probably already on his way to the perfect meetup point that he will only discover when he runs into Sherlock at some improbable street, Sherlock with his smug face just waiting for him to ask, because heaven knows that meeting at the hotel would be simply too boring.

He replies, pays, and is out of the cab before he realizes that it would probably have been faster to keep it. Ah well, he suddenly has too much energy to stay sitting now anyway. And Sherlock probably knows he’ll be walking, and he wouldn’t want to deprive the man of showing off. After all, he would be entirely justified.

There’s a case, and he’ll soon meet Sherlock, and he’s walking fast in the cool evening wind in London, not Afghanistan but London, and he’ll soon see Sherlock, and there’s a case, and John Watson is a happy man.

He sees him as he turns onto Forsythe avenue, standing a head above the crowd, all long lean lines of leg and cheekbone framed by the familiar black trench coat, collar turned up, chin sunken into a black muffler wound thick around his neck, hands thrust deep into pockets. He couldn’t look less like an emotionless computer if he tried – there’s this thrumming vibrancy, a vitality evident even in stillness, even from this distance. A power that leaves John breathless, it’s so fucking beautiful.

It’s late in the evening and he’s had a long day of work and they’re going to a scene of a triple murder, and judging by the excitement in Sherlock’s eyes it’s probably bloody as can be, and John doesn’t even try to stop the smile that spreads helplessly across his face. And of course he’s not really surprised that Sherlock knew exactly where to meet him, but seeing that brain of his in action is simply addictive and he’ll never ever get enough of it. He says something to that effect, tempering it down because of course Sherlock doesn’t particularly want to hear just how much John Watson really cares for him, and because he’s promised himself that he’ll keep this man’s friendship if it’s the last thing he does, because he loves this rollercoaster of a life and because really who else will ever make John feel so indescribably alive?

And Sherlock smiles at him, an imperceptible softening of the eyes and the slightest upturn of the corners of his lips before they turn together and stride towards the murder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... the plot thickens...  
> 

 

He’s striding into the hotel room, Lestrade has thankfully told his people to expect him so they manage to avoid the usual sealed-off crime scene rigmarole, and John sees the bodies and blood and stops with a muttered “Jesus” but Sherlock’s already inhaling the scene. Bodies: three, facing away from each other, two bloody, one unmarked, two men and a woman… causes of death: asphyxiation, bullet, garrote wire around neck… choked by hand, probably drugged beforehand, ah yes, saliva at the corner of lip smelling distinctively of chloroform… bullet is simple enough, tied to a chair and brained, Glock-44, close-range judging by the smattering of white powder near the temple, and ah this one was drugged too… garrote wire, thick and stainless steel-based, again signs of chloroform...

Something’s wrong.

“Time and cause of death, John”, he orders, because after all John is a doctor and he always defers to medical expertise, and he wants to hear what John makes of this little scene, because clearly there’s more going on than simple murder.

“Well they’ve all been killed differently, which is odd isn’t it - ” says Anderson, and it’s irritating enough that Sherlock can’t help snapping at his moronic face.

“Obvious, obvious, and don’t state opinions I want facts, if you can’t say anything useful don’t say anything at all. And last time I checked, your name wasn’t John, though heaven knows I can’t be bothered to remember what it is and you’re obviously too stupid to.”

Anderson opens his mouth and Sherlock is fully prepared to eviscerate him on the spot, because there’s really something about this crime scene that’s rubbing him up the wrong way, but John intervenes with a quiet “all right now” and starts moving towards the bodies and Sherlock’s attention is focused again.

“Right, well, this woman here has been asphyxiated, likely by hand, judging from skin temperature and saliva coagulation, died ten to twelve hours ago. Also shows signs of having been drugged, though I’m not sure with what.”

 _Chloroform_ , thinks Sherlock, but doesn’t interrupt as John moves towards the next body, all calm medical efficiency and expertise and utter reliability.

“This man, shot in the brain, also drugged before, skin cold but judging from the thickness of the blood I’d say he was killed not more than six hours ago, definitely not at the same time as the woman. And finally, the last man, garrote wire around his neck, bloody awful way to die, and his skin is still warm so killed less than two hours ago.”

Problems, problems, _problems_ , too many bizarre variables!

First problem, obvious: why kill them all differently if they’re drugged beforehand? Second, equally obvious: why kill them at different times, why why _why?_ Third: no footprints, misplaced furniture, no hair or dirt on the floor, just blood, it’s too pristine, why? Fourth: angles are off, unnatural… why are they all facing away from each other, why does the whole scene look… arranged?

Think, think, _think_ … such care taken with the arrangement so there must be a message, but what? A message for the police, clearly, hidden in the victims. Who are they, then? The woman, asphyxiated, level four bruising around the neck, fiftyish, mousy-brown-009821 hair cut very recently cut short above the neck, cut today in fact judging by the stray hairs on the collar, cotton blouse far too flimsy for the weather, no coat-crinkles so clearly she’s been dressed for the purpose, dressed for display! Dressed to die… it’s sickening but oh so intriguing, this particular criminal mind is positively arresting, Sherlock hasn’t felt so alive in weeks! Wedding ring, scratched but clean, frequently removed, chain-marks so occasionally worn around the neck, widow then. Nothing much to be read in the shoes or the watch… moving on.

The older man, also in his fifties, hair silver-white-001213 at the temples, white shirt open at the collar, nondescript black suit, again unwrinkled and pristine except for the thin trickle of blood from the temple, old silver watch, trigger finger clearly accustomed to firing a gun, but many papercuts… clearly a man accustomed to both combat and paperwork, possibly a policeman… all of it arranged, planned, none of the normal boring marks that ordinary people are so full of, he’s seeing what the criminal wants him to see, but _why_?

Third body: younger, thirties, dirty blond hair, black leather jacket and army ROTC t-shirt –

Sherlock’s mind screeches to a halt.

A message, yes yes yes of course, but not for the police, a message for _him_.

Mousy-haired widow: _Mrs. Hudson._ Silver-haired policeman: _Lestrade._

_And John._

_No_.

He doesn’t realize he’s whispered the word out loud until John, beside him, always beside him, says “what was that, Sherlock?” and he whirls to face him and takes in his rugged, open face and bile rises up in his throat when he considers the danger he’s put this man in, _again_ , because this is obviously Moriarty’s doing, Moriarty who put him in a bomb vest and who forced Sherlock to pretend to kill himself, two things that have already almost destroyed this man and now he’s doing it again and Sherlock just wants to _scream_ with the sheer frustration of it all. His rivalry with Moriarty is supposed to affect only him, why why _why_ does it always end up affecting John?

 _Sentiment, sentiment, sentiment_ , Mycroft is sneering in his head over and over and the loop is endless and John’s staring at him in concern, “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” but he can’t respond and he feels like he’s drowning in a thick viscous mixture of honey and blood –

“Sherlock!”

And John’s in front of him, hands warm and reassuring on his shoulders, and he looks into those eyes and sees worry and concern and he knows he’ll find, stalk and kill Moriarty in cold blood before he gets within a mile of this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did start this fic with the intention of pure romance but it's mutations are really beyond my control. Plus, I think Sherlock needs a little nudging, something to make him realize just how important John really is to him, don't you? *wink wink*  
> After all, our two favorite british boys can hardly be expected to stop having death-defying adventures just because they're falling in love.
> 
> Again, comments are appreciated, loved, treasured, cherished more than you would believe.


End file.
